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Morning Rose

Roses are red,
in a carrion hue of carnal desire,
as a city of asphalt in the blistering heat
of a faltering afternoon, dark in the dying twilight
of an ebbing summer;
as a pair of perfect lips in the shadow,
sparkling with a light granted by a cracked window:
a light that would be born of starlight
in a more dismal place, perhaps...
coveted by love in lieu of spontaneity.

These roses are faded,
old, decrepit, unwanted in the nostalgic,
fleeting nature of their gifts,
as pictures to remind me
of those that I once held so close
on nights devoid of starlight,
on warm afternoons lacking responsibility.